Tuesday, October 27, 2020

A New Hope... with a new cover

After posting my update blog Monday, I decided to go forth and find a new cover image for Scollay Love, my first historical romance set in 1950s/1960s Boston, and the first book that I wrote under the D.L. Boyd pen name. I'll admit, the title is weak... but the old cover, it was weaker.


I had hoped that this cover would show two 1950s era teens -- late teens, early 20s -- in love. And at 99 cents, I had hoped the romance community would flock to it.

They didn't.

And so, with my revamped business plan, getting Scollay Love a new cover and getting it out in paperback was one of my priorities.

This is what I've come up with:


A more fun cover, if I do say so myself! It catches the eye, which is really what covers are supposed to do. And to remind you of what the book is about...

It is tough to lose the place where you met.

For uptown Boston Brahmin gal Charlene Phillips and downtown West End boy Joe Cafario, their starkly different lives come together in Scollay Square, Boston’s famed center, where they fall into a forbidden love amidst the tassels of the Old Howard and the aroma of slow-boiled hot dogs at Joe and Nemo. When their love is ended after Charlene’s final defiance of her parents, the two remain true to each other, despite their forced separation.

When Charlene returns and they reunite in the Square, the city of Boston is about to go through a major change—one that Joe is hell-bent in stopping.

Hopefully the book -- which should be available in paperback in a few days -- will find its readership now.

And for 99 cents, it's an absolute bargain to see how I flex these new muscles.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Monday, October 26, 2020

A quickie update in the business plan re-evaluation: So far, so good

As you're probably aware, I'm in the middle of re-vamping and re-evaluating my business plan. I outlined my goals earlier this month, and I wanted to use this time with you to give an update on my progress.

So far, so good: I'm through the hard part, a series of deep edits to three books: Turning Back The Clock and A Galaxy At War, which I wrote under my old 00's pen name of John Fitch V, as well as to Royal Switch. When I wrote that initial post, I had already gone through TBTC and chopped some 18,000 words and some change from the original book, removed head-hopping, as well as passive voice. I did the same with Royal Switch and ended up chopping 4,000 words from the original text and massaged some of the prose there. I had intended on re-writing the entire book from scratch, but after review, I think it's better this way. And that opening to the book? Not as big of an info dump as I thought!

Galaxy, though... it was as I suspected. Much like TBTC, there was unpolished writing full of head-hopping, passive voice... just a really unrefined book, if I'm being honest. I've said it before, I'll say it again -- I really wasn't a great writer back then. Great storyteller, sure. I weaved a good tale. Did I execute it properly? Absolutely not.

That is why it pains me to relay to you that I cut over 32,000 words -- more than a third of the book -- from Galaxy's original word count, turning it more into a story the size of Zombie Showdown or Scollay Love more than anything resembling the AGENT series; it's like the old dime novels, with some beef to them. Still, my hope is that the book is better from this exercise, and I will re-read the story around Christmas to make sure it is just that. I will do the same with TBTC and Royal Switch, then re-brand with new covers. My hope is that all three books will be out for public consumption in March.

And speaking of new covers...

So far, Terry has come through with four of the six new covers for Obloeron. I've gotten peeks of what he has done, and it's amazing. At some point this week, I will make the refreshed cover for Scollay Love -- which should just be the old cover, resized for paperback -- and I will get back to my website and make sure I don't have the wrong links for Apple iBooks; some of them go to the Euro pricing, not the American. I've gone through the links in the bookstore to make sure I have no broken links.

Phew.

What's next? In looking at my list, I see there are many things I can do. Copy and paste the AGENT novels into specific three-book files for segmented box sets. I can do that. The same for Obloeron. I can sign up for BookFunnel to distribute my not-yet-written freebie; I still haven't decided if it should be a Jaclyn freebie, or something else. 

I can start doing additional research for Glorious Rise. I can look into more advertising. I can do this. I can do that.

Really, so much still to do!

But the fact that I've gotten most of the really hard stuff out of the way... yeah, I'm happy with that, and my progress.

We'll take the victories, however small, as they come.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Friday, October 9, 2020

Re-focusing, Re-writing, and Reviewing My Outdated Business Plan

Over the last two weeks or so, I have taken some time to do something I've intended for the last three years: re-work my business plan in order to reclaim my audience. The last three years, it has been rather difficult to do that, whether it be taking on jobs that break up the writing week or ones that prevent me from writing, period, or not having enough money to adequately strengthen my reach via advertising on Facebook or Amazon.

That ends now. But I also end it with a mea culpa.

For most of my writing career, I've made many mistakes -- but I can safely say that I've learned from them and now want to put what I've learned into action. I've learned that some of my books, mainly my earlier ones, suffered from poor writing. I feel that I've grown as a writer, with my more recent books showing that my writing now is crisp, clear, concise. It's my intention to strengthen those books by any means possible and re-release them in 2021.

I've already done that with one book, Turning Back The Clock, one of my John Fitch V novels. When I started a deep edit on that book last week, the original novel was over 101,000 words. When I finished earlier this week, I had removed over 18,000 words, or the equivalent of 33 pages. I fixed the voice, I eliminated the head-hopping, and I just removed prose that simply didn't work for me not as the author, but as a reader. It's an 11-year-old book, but it reads so much better now with what I've done to it, and I hope the readers feel the same way. In all honesty, I fell in love with the story all over again!

The next book to strengthen is TBTC's follow-up -- but under my name -- Royal Switch. Again, something I messed up on, even though I've said that I did it for momentum reasons: I published Royal two months or so after I published Model Agent, and I wanted to take advantage of that momentum. Suffice it to say, that didn't happen.

I've known there were problems with Royal for some time -- in fairness, I thought way back then that I needed an info dump right at the beginning of the story; I've since changed my mind and earlier this year made the decision to re-tool that section. But not only that... in starting to re-read the book this morning, I've found amateurish, crap writing that is, to be sure, thoroughly embarrassing to me as a writer. No wonder the book foundered and has barely sold (11 copies since January 2015!).

What to do about that? Well, I'm going to completely re-write the book, all 75,000-plus words, almost from scratch. The story is sound, but the way I executed the book... I failed at that. My intention is to make the book better with stronger writing than I showed in 2011.

I also want to do something similar with another JFV novel, A Galaxy At War -- a book just as old as Turning Back The Clock. I have yet to print out and read the story, but I'm sure I will encounter the same problems that I have with TBTC, Royal Switch, and the Obloeron novels. It's another book that barely sells (5 copies since January 2014), and that could also be due to the mistake I made with the cover: it's relatively bland and doesn't scream sci-fi. I want to invest in this book not only with the writing, but with the cover art. I'll be talking to fellow author Daniel Arenson about his cover artist for his Earthrise sci-fi novels and Matt Verish for his stuff, as I'd like to improve that incredibly important facet. It will cost me a pretty penny, but as I've said, I can't be afraid of the cost.

What else do I need to do to regain the audience? A new cover for Scollay Love, new Obloeron covers -- Terry C. Simpson is working on those for me -- plus paperbacks for all of the above. I also want to pen a new 30,000-word novella that I'll give away as an enticement to join my mailing list, something I've failed at doing over the last five years; my hope is to get that taken care of by Christmas. My whole focus was on writing stuff that will inevitably sell, when I should have taken a longer look at the bigger picture. If I'm going to continue doing this, I need to do this correctly, and I need to grasp the bigger picture. I need to give something away to my fans. I need to spend money to gain my audience back. I need to do this. I need to do that.

In time, I will get that done. It won't be overnight. This is a marathon, not a sprint -- but I can't let years pass without doing anything, like I have since I first recognized the problem. If you want a problem to go away, you have to do something about it. You can't just ignore it.

The time is, as they say, now.

Thanks for not giving up on me.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Wednesday, July 1, 2020

Finally, I'm published again! Happy Book Day, Glorious Slip!

After nearly two and a half years -- an absolute lifetime in the publishing world -- I've published my 29th novel and second under the D.L. Boyd pen name today, that being the first of a time travel historical adventure and romance series, Glorious Slip.

No, I'm not crying... well, sort of. I am definitely crying.

The reason? I never thought I'd get this book out. It was a long time writing the first draft, more than a year, given that I had new jobs -- trying to get money into a house when you don't have a college degree is tough, and when you are partially handicapped with a heart ailment, there is only so much I can do -- and Kim had a computer issue (not her fault at all!). Then trying to find the right cover... and sure, this doesn't exactly scream Revolutionary War:





But it's what I had, and I'm happy with it.

Honestly, I'm so happy with the way the book came out. The story was several months in the making, after I had read Outlander and was aghast that Diana Galbadon took upward of 47 pages to get Claire Randall back to 1745. I thought to myself, "If I took 47 pages to get my protagonist to her destination, my readers would put my book down and find something else." Determined, I did months of research outside of what I already knew about the Revolutionary War, and I sketched out the entirety of this three-book series. I wrote then I could, given the new jobs that I had. Sometimes I went weeks without writing, until the offseason of the Major League Soccer season between 2018 and 2019. While the Revolution were in Spain, and with no streams of the matches to watch, I buckled down after SuperDraft and belted out the last few chapters. I did some revision and added some Doc Brown-esque writings -- you'll see when you read the book -- and then edited it over the summer of 2019, in between Revolution matches.

Kim did a wonderful job in editing, I got it back in February, and then waited. But now the book is live, to my joy. The first book that I've published in over two years... you have to forgive me, I'm emotional about it.

I hope you enjoy it, when you get to it. It's a solid read that introduces you to the character of Nick Smith, who must keep silent about what he knows... and in the second book, which I'll start writing this fall sometime, is when things start to really pick up. It's a suitable first book in a series, and at 99 cents for the ebook, it's a good value. I know a few people who have picked up the paperback and have raved about it.

I'm sure you will, too.

Happy Book Day, Glorious Slip. You're out in the world, and I couldn't be happier.

Pick up your copy at the links below:


Saturday, June 27, 2020

Inside the characters of GLORIOUS SLIP


Over the last few weeks, I've let you know about the pre-order for Glorious Slip as well as gave you a chapter snippet that you can peruse at your leisure.

Today, I'm going to tell you about the characters.

Characters are so important to any story; we see through their eyes, we feel what they are experiencing. And in Glorious Slip, the characters are on the verge of the American Revolutionary War, so there's plenty to see and feel as they go about their lives.





Nick Smith

Nick is our protagonist. He is a 21st Century boy who loves American history, and little does he know as our story opens that he's about to live it. Nick is a tall young man from Fitchburg, Mass., and he looks to keep the Wood Family safe when he arrives in 1765. He meets a young lady whose mother dies soon after his arrival, and he must navigate through early family squabbles while debating with himself about telling the young lady the truth. He bears witness to several key points in history during this series.

Constance Wood

Constance is the aforementioned young lady. She helps manage the Wood Farm after her mother Wilma's passing, and falls for the handsome stranger that her mother has hired. She accepts Nick's word pretty much as gospel, and after marriage, does her level best to support him in every decision he makes... like witnessing a pivotal moment in American history that could, if the shots go errant, kill him.

Samuel Adams

One of the heroes of the American Revolution, Adams lives near the Wood Farm and meets Nick in the intervening minutes following Wilma Wood's passing. He invites Nick to join the Sons of Liberty, as well as doing a number of tasks for him. The two men are close, as if Samuel knows the truth about Nick.

Henry Knox

At 15 years old, a young supporting character that rises to do great things for his country in due time. Henry is a bookseller in Colonial Boston during this time, and he meets up with Nick every so often to converse. Nick, even though he's older, holds young Henry in high esteem -- and for good reason.

John Wood

Our main antagonist in the story. John is the oldest surviving male at the Wood Farm, and he is an arrogant bastard. He is kicked out of the family, and he eventually gets his revenge. Is a Crown Loyalist among Colonists upset at the continued taxation.

Colton Wood

At first Colton is on Nick's side, but after one particular event, he turns on his siblings and Nick to join John's side. Both become Customs Commissioners and welcome the embargo of Boston.

And there are more where this comes from.

Reserve your copy at the links below in time for its July 1 release:



iBooks (coming soon) 
Smashwords

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Wednesday, June 17, 2020

A First Glimpse: A chapter of GLORIOUS SLIP

With just under two weeks to go until Glorious Slip is live (July 1!) for only 99 cents, I'd like to give you a glimpse into the book with one chapter of the story.

I hope you enjoy, and after reading, I hope you pre-order your copy at the links provided. And just so you know, you can order the paperback and read it before the ebook goes live. I'm just saying.

#####

Nick flailed his arms as his head broke the surface some eight-to-ten seconds after colliding with it. A lacy cloud poured from his mouth as he gasped, taking in the cool air through wet lips. He bobbed slightly, his chin and mouth ducking underneath the surface. He choked as he noticed water had flowed in with that initial bob, his gag reflex kicking in as the panic instantly swept through him.
 

The water inside him didn’t get out fast enough: Nick managed to spit it out in a torrent.

Yuck, Charles River water! he cried internally. Charles River water in my mouth! The worst! Fuck, god-damn it, stay out of my belly!
 

The coughs racked his clenched chest as he tried treading water, swinging his arms back and forth and letting his shod feet kick out beneath the surface. He felt the chill nibbling against his face even as the water lapped against him, and he did quick math.

If I climb out of wherever the hell I am, he thought, then I’m going to catch a pneumonia. But if I stay in here, wherever here is, then I’ll turn into an icicle and die. He exhaled; another cloud spilled and twisted away to nothingness. The thoughts stemmed from a long lost memory: he was in his single digits back then, and the stubborn little boy wouldn’t get out of the local YMCA pool following a swimming lesson — the air outside the pool was too cold that day, he recalled, leading to his continual bobbing and subsequent demerit as soon as someone yanked him from the water. The latter, though, emerged from his ceaseless watching of Titanic around the same time. The decisions I have to make.


Nick tried to calm himself even as he remained buoyant. He tried to breathe normally, even as the cold water surrounded him and made his heart thump quicker than usual. He shook his head and blinked his eyelids, if only to make sure no stubborn droplets clung.

Up ahead, Nick noticed the moonlight dancing on the water, as well as what looked like a rather curved land mass just beyond it. He made out a few rocks on what he felt was a jetty, much like the one in Provincetown, since he couldn’t see over it. He guessed the jetty was only about one hundred feet away, which he figured would only take a few strokes of his water-logged jacket to reach.

Nick nodded, all as he shivered. He used both hands to displace the water in front of him, the motion countering the knife-like pains shooting through him. The cold seeped into his brain, which forced him to concentrate on getting to shore.

God, if you get me through this, he thought, I’ll go to church on Sunday. I don’t know where, but I’ll get there. Jesus Christ, this is cold.

The distance between Nick and the jetty dwindled over the next few chill-induced minutes until he felt safe enough to set his feet on the sloping scree. He closed his eyes as he hit the shallower waters and hefted himself up onto his quivering legs. Nick took three sloshing steps before he hit his knees on a somewhat un-rocky area, pulling his soaked body ashore. He kept his head bowed as he breathed, his eyes closed. His breath tingled as it escaped, caressing his cheeks like a lover.

Even as the water behind him stilled from his motions after a few moments, he heard the collision of beads against the rock, as if his harrowing ordeal gave him extra-sensory perception. He knew that wasn’t true, but with every drip from his hair to the rock, it resembled the slow pop of bacon frying on medium-low heat.

Nick blew out another long breath between pursed lips, all while the blood rampaged in his ears; he wanted to groan as he felt the sides of his head develop their own heartbeat, but he stifled himself.
The shivering — much like he had feared in that pool at the Y — started soon after.

“Warm,” he managed to spit. “Need to get warm.” Another breath vomited from deep within. “Need to get warm now.”

His teeth started their repeated chattering as the cold slowly moved deeper into him. He tried to think of warmth, if only to trigger a psychosomatic response within him. He thought of the Florida Keys where his wizened second cousin once removed had lived before he died a year ago, and how the old man had showed him where all the twenty-something co-eds skinny-dipped in a private cove off the Caribbean. Nick tried to get his lips to respond to that memory, to no avail.

He thought of sitting in a sauna, the steam canvassing its depths as he waited for a lovely co-ed or a twenty-something like himself to enter, her dirty blonde hair pulled up into a teacher-like bun, and subsequently drop her towel, exposing herself to his gaze, all while a mischievous smile played all over her face. He felt a bit of heat radiate from his groin.

Still, it wasn’t enough. He grimaced as he stood, his body trembling from the cold, and tried looking out in a 360-degree pattern, all as his clothes clung to him like a second skin.

“Where the hell am I?” he asked.

It was a good question, he had to admit. He saw nothing resembling lights in any direction, only the darkness of distant hills reflecting the moonlight. One looked impossibly high for Boston.

If I’m still in Boston, he thought. There are no lights anywhere, no sign of lights atop the skyscrapers. Maybe I got carried all the way over to Nahant? Nick shook his head, thinking it impossible. Even if I did, I would see something resembling life here, or some streetlights. He raised his hand. This isn’t life. The stars ain’t streetlights.

Nick turned and sat down, taking the opportunity to look out at the moon and where he had emerged from the water — or where he had dropped into it.

That vortex, or whatever the fuck it was, carried me a long way from Boston, that’s for sure, Nick thought with a few bobs of his head. The chills returned, even though there was no wind to be had. He instinctively wrapped his arms tight around himself, if only to try to withhold as much warmth as he had within his body for as long as possible. His jacket felt heavy, even in a sitting position. Then it dropped me, right here, into whatever this is. He stared out at the moon’s reflection before letting a tenuous swallow slip into his gullet.

Nick soon felt numb, as if he’d never feel warm again.

God, don’t let me freeze here, he thought, all as the darkness closed in on him.

***

He didn’t freeze.

Nick awoke just as a strengthening sun rose over his right shoulder. Pushing himself up, he detected a weight against his right cheek; he brushed the gravel and dirt aside, then rubbed the excess off with his fingertips until he felt sure he had a somewhat clear face. The shivering didn’t exactly return at once, though; seeing the sun so bright and unencumbered by practically anything made his heart swell double its size. He smiled, even though it hurt his flesh to do so.

The smiling, though…

Nick groaned reflexively, all as the sides of his head continued their incessant thrum. He swallowed, even though his saliva dragged down a parched throat with the effectiveness of rubbing sandpaper against a sheet of damp particleboard.

“I shouldn’t have drunk that much on an empty stomach,” he mused. “One would think I would have learned that lesson by now. Oy.”

He managed to get to his feet, the air pockets snapping inside his knees — he groaned — and looked toward the rising sun, holding his hands out in welcome, trying to draw in all the heat. He kept his eyes closed, the exhilaration at the warm touches seeping into his flesh. Nick shoved his shoulders back, the stiffness in his lower back giving way; he let another groan fly. A renewed vigor seeped into his joints with every deep, salt-infused breath; he wanted to stay there until he deemed himself adequately warm and dry from the mid-evening plunge, but he knew he had to find a way home, back to his off-campus apartment. He had class in only a few hours, and he needed to put the finishing touches on his discussion paper before handing it in. If there was anything he felt especially proud about, it was his penchant to stick to deadlines.

His thoughts about meeting it dissolved as soon as his eyes widened.

He had turned ninety degrees to his right. In that simple gesture, that simple movement, he finally got a good look at his surroundings.

The gasp rippled from Nick’s mouth as he took it all in, all while shuddering in quiet disbelief. In the full light of day, unencumbered by the veil of night, he looked out and just from the sight alone, he knew right away that he was not in Boston any longer — but he couldn’t place where on Earth he now stood, either. For a moment, he thought the vortex, or whatever it was, had flung him halfway across the state, yet he wiped the thought clear even as it came to him: even in the rural towns beyond Sturbridge, the roads were paved and well maintained.

Here, wherever the hell here was, they weren’t. The roads looked incredibly narrow, far narrower than anything he had experienced in his life, and puddles dotted the ways, darkening the dirt and softening it.

He saw sturdy constructions here and there, some nearly on top of their neighbors. He saw red brick forming the fa├žade of each, yet the roofing, from his rather distant vantage point, looked rather primitive. Large pastures full of green and blooming flowers flanked the rearsides of these buildings — he felt sure they were dwellings, for a light gray smoke trickled from well-used chimneys — with livestock munching away at a fence abutting the nearby road.

Yet his eyes grew even larger as he set his gaze on the recognizable dark mountain from last night. Unmistakable, there were paths carved into it, and even from this distance, about a mile or so away, maybe even less, he saw several different things scurrying about its side.

He swallowed. He hoped they were friendly, and that they’d have an idea of how to get back to Boston from here.

Am I in Amish country? he added as an afterthought. That’s the only explanation as to where I am. I’m hanging with the fucking Amish.

Nick walked away from the shoreline and wandered down a house-less lane, taking great care not to sink into the mud. A light pile of snow caressed the side of it, caked in the same stuff on which he now stood. It was no more than five inches high at the base of the long fence, which he noticed was built almost in an X pattern between the fat posts set ten feet apart. He had seen fences constructed like that during field trips to Old Sturbridge Village during his high school years.

And on days warmer than this, too, he thought as he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and pulled it closer to his belly. Thankfully, I didn’t catch pneumonia, unless I did, I’m dead now, and this is whatever paradise is supposed to be. Although I have to say I didn’t think paradise would be this muddy, or have the remnants of a winter storm on the side of the road, but hey, who am I, really?

Nick turned right onto a wider boulevard, this one just as muddy as the last. He noticed several piles of horse droppings smack dab in the middle, and he immediately side-stepped the first batch. In doing so, he almost stepped in the second, missing it by mere centimeters.

He let go of a throaty grunt and refrained from pulling the back of his wrist against his brow.

“So much for looking at the scenery,” he muttered, “of which there is none. Have to watch out for landmines instead.” Nick twisted his lips in disgust. “Crap.”

He continued his impromptu morning stroll, the sun clearly behind him. His shadow remained tight to him, he saw, while he tried to find the source of chickens cooing nearby. His sneakers only sank by a couple of millimeters in the loose mud; the corners of his mouth sank that amount, too.

Definitely Amish, Nick thought as he firmed his jaw and nodded his head.

“Are you lost?” a voice called from behind.

Nick whipped around and found a matronly woman standing several feet away. She had the look of Mary Poppins, but with light wrinkles near the corners of her eyes. The woman’s dress was well worn and not a bright navy, and she carried a rather large bag on her arm that was just as well-worn as her clothes. Her gaze pierced him, as if doing so with a great deal of scrutiny.

Surely she’s looking at my damp clothing and wondering if she should call the police, he thought. Yet now that I think about it, maybe I should be the one calling police. She certainly doesn’t look like she belongs in, well, my time — unless she’s Amish, of course.

“Yeah,” he replied softly. “I don’t know where I am.”

The woman approached cautiously. Her head tilted to the left as she halted practically in front of him.

“Are you looking for work, by any chance?”

Nick blinked. He didn’t understand the question, nor did he understand why she continued to shower him with that intrusive look. He wanted to say, “No, I’m looking for a way home because I’m going to miss class,” but he wasn’t sure if she would understand that — especially if she were Amish; ending one’s schooling in the eighth grade sounded too foreign to him, and he didn’t have much time left to get his degree.

What he did after that was purely up to the job market. He had thought about teaching history at a high school — his alma mater was in the process of phasing his old history teacher out, given that he neared 70 and really didn’t want to slow down, despite the superintendent’s misgivings about the man’s age and drinking problems — but wondered if teaching at a middle school was a safer bet.

“I don’t really know?” He didn’t try to hide his anxiety, at least not in his voice. Did she want him to work as her private dancer, a take-it-off kind of boy? As a masseur? “Don’t really think I’m looking for a job, but I think I’m open to anything?”

“I have a farm that needs a hand,” the woman said. “My husband passed away a few weeks ago; murdered, actually —”

Nick blinked again at her forwardness. Who is so open about such things? Christ, if my pseudo-wife was murdered — okay, let’s not go that far. I don’t even have a girlfriend, the woman in the bar with the skin-tight dress notwithstanding. It’s been a while since I’ve had a true blue lady in my life, one that actually wants to Netflix and Chill with me. But I don’t believe I’d be telling total strangers that my spouse was recently murdered and that my farm is looking for a hand, but what do I know?

“I’m so sorry to hear that, ma’am, but I’m not a farmer. Really,” he said as soon as the woman’s sadness and her own anxiety rippled, “I’m just a student of history.”

“Oh,” the woman replied. “It would be nice to have someone to give my son a hand. Lord knows my eldest remaining son doesn’t know which end of a hoe goes in the ground. Too busy playing politics.”

“I’m sorry, eldest remaining son?”

He knew he shouldn’t have asked, but it came out too fast, even before his brain had the opportunity to put his tongue on lockdown. But since she was being so open and honest, he might as well pry even more information from her.

“Yes, my eldest first-born son died in the war. Left us in a right pickle, not his fault of course, and now with my husband gone and our youngest ones doing what they can, we could use a man of strength around our farm, especially with John, the eldest remaining son, that is, being such a useless Crown sympathizer.”

Nick tilted his head by a fraction of an inch at hearing those last words and tried to process what it meant. He had never heard the words “Crown sympathizer” outside of his classes — not even in the small work groups the professor wanted did he heard those words flung about in such haphazard fashion — and hadn’t considered using them in any every day conversation.

“I’m sorry — did you just say Crown sympathizer?” he asked, growing aware that he felt a numbness near his shoulders, his flesh tingling.

“I did. My son thinks George, king for all of nearly four and a half years now, is the bee’s knees, if that’s the proper saying. Glory in the name of Britain indeed. Boy wishes he could live in London. If we could afford it, I would have put his powdered wig-loving self on an outgoing ship and made sure he stays in that dirty little town long before now. But no, the Sugar Act hurt us, even though he says it was necessary.”

Nick tried to move his lips, but he heard nothing emerge from his throat, other than a light gurgle. He thought he was in the midst of choking, or worse, having a stroke, but he didn’t feel his left arm going completely numb, or that the side of his face sloped, as if his skin and flesh wanted to fall off his skull. None of that was happening, but he realized that he didn’t feel so good.

He tried to process everything the widow woman had said, and it made his mind spin: from her eldest son being killed in the war to Crown sympathizing eldest-remaining son, to George — certainly she can’t mean Prince William’s son, right? he wondered — but what really threw him for a loop was her casual mention of the Sugar Act. That meant —

Nick never got the words out. He felt his eyelids shoot back into his skull, all while his legs lost all connectivity with his brain.

He toppled hard as they gave way, and saw nothing else.



#####

Thanks for reading! You can reserve your copy at the links below.


iBooks (coming soon)

Wednesday, June 10, 2020

Introducing GLORIOUS SLIP, now available for pre-order

After a year or so of waiting for the right moment, Glorious Slip under my D.L. Boyd pen name is now available to pre-order, and available for print copies. I'll share a snippet of the book in the coming days, just as a taste, but first I want to tell you what the book -- and eventually the series -- is about.

First, the blurb:

Science fiction meets adventure meets romance in this first of a planned historical trilogy by D.L. Boyd!

Nick Smith is a student of history, especially that of his state’s capital, Boston.

Little does he know that he is about to live it.

Jettisoned some two and a half centuries into the past, Nick discovers that he has landed in Colonial Boston. He marvels at finding the Shawmut Peninsula in the years before the Revolutionary War, and witnesses Bostonians’ palpable anger.

Working a farm and falling in love with a young lady three years his junior, Nick must avoid conflicts with his new brother-in-law, a Crown loyalist.

Ride along with Nick as he rubs elbows with early America’s greatest minds, all while concealing America’s destiny.



Not a bad pull, huh?

I conceived the story, an Outlander-esque tale but not as long-winded, back in the fall of 2017, and it took until February 2019 to get the first draft done. Lots stood in my way in 2018, mainly in the form of a new job, and there was the whole two radio shows that I did, which inevitably de-railed any momentum. I managed to finish it when the New England Revolution were in Spain for preseason training in February 2019.

The story, set in the years leading up to the Revolutionary War, was intended to be a historical romance, but as it happens, I focused more on the adventure side of things... there is romance, just enough for a taste, but the story is more adventure than anything. You will feel Nick's feelings pulling you in several directions, you will feel for him when he makes an important realization of what he must do.

And not only that, you will feel his pulse quicken as he watches an important event in American history play out before his eyes.





Glorious Slip is the first of three books in this series (I will start writing book two starting this fall, after I finish the first draft to Incoming Private Show, which I hope to resume writing sometime next week), and is available for pre-order at the rather low introductory price of 99 cents for ebook, and $9.95 for trade paperback.

For those picking up the ebook, it will go live on Wednesday, July 1 -- right in time for the Independence Day holiday.

Reserve your copy here:

iBooks (coming soon)

Print copies are available through Amazon.